


Institutionalized

by feathers_and_cigarettes



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Venom (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Ships To Be Added Later, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Other, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prison AU, cellmates, rating will increase, symbrock, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes
Summary: (Inspired by the 60 Days In docu-series)Clint’s gotten used to certain creature comforts during his time in the Vault, especially since aligning himself with Steve and establishing himself as the right hand man of the resident pod boss. One of those comforts is Steve controls who gets bunks on the upper level and generally everyone gets along fairly well with few exceptions. Newbies get bunks along the lower level wall and those not in Steve’s alliance fill in the cells. As a result, Clint considers most of the upper level his friends and it’s a safe refuge for when he needs it.What he really doesn’t need is to try to sleep with the Winter Soldier in the bunk below his.
Relationships: Eddie Brock/Venom Symbiote, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Institutionalized

**Author's Note:**

> (yes this is a WIP that I'm actively working on)
> 
> This is inspired by my binging four seasons of 60 Days In and wanting to do a Prison AU for some time. The pod layouts are the same from that documentary and while a lot of this fic will be slices of prison life, there is an overarching plot that we're working toward - plus Winterhawk, cause they're idiots. Comments feed my soul, even if it's "omg you took a break from writing Fratt."
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

“New guys,” Peter mutters under his breath, eyes shifting back to the cards in his hand. “Threes?”

Clint twists around to watch as the door to the pod slides open, letting the three of hearts fall out of his sleeve and into his palm. He hands it over absently, tracking the new inmates as they enter the cell.

New blood always puts the pod on edge and this time’s no different. Clint notices a few guys come out of their cells and lean on the upper railing, several putting their powers on display. Bruce’s face distorts briefly, green licking up his neck from under his shirt before fading slowly, a casual reminder to the rest of the pod that if any scuffles break out with the newbies that the Hulk will end them.

“Sixes?” Peter asks as Clint shifts back in his seat. The guy has his long limbs sprawled along his side of the table, seemingly relaxed and ignoring the newbies, but Clint knows he’ll be on the ceiling in half a second if shit goes down.

“Go fish,” Clint replies, watching as a guy with fucking _scales_ of all things hesitates in front of Rumlow’s cell. Definitely a newbie, and his hesitation has cost him a cell, as Rumlow steps out to block the entrance, forcing Scales to pick a bunk along the lower wall without the protection of an actual room.

Peter draws a card, smirking triumphantly and setting down a set of sixes and winning the game. “You’ve got the worst luck, Barton, I swear.”

Clint grins and shrugs. “Some people get bitten by radioactive spiders, some people lose at cards all the time, man.” He’d never tell Peter, or anyone but Steve for that matter, that he lets his friends win and as a rule doesn’t play cards with assholes.

It’s sometimes a good thing to be underestimated in the Vault.

“Go again or do you wanna check out the fresh meat?”

Sparing a glance over at Steve, Clint frowns and nudges the thin ankle with his sandal. The man looks like he’s been shot, an unnerving thing to witness on the normally unflappable Steve Rogers, and instantly Clint is on edge.

He stands, stretching languidly, popping the kinks out of his back and makes eye contact with Eddie across the room, raising an eyebrow and clapping Steve on the back noisily, signalling the mountain of a man over.

“Sorry, Parker,” Clint says, reaching out to clasp Peter’s hand in a loose shake. “Hit me up after dinner though, maybe my luck won’t be shit.”

Peter scowls as Eddie approaches. The two have some sort of bad blood between them but both are such nerds that Clint keeps hoping they’ll eventually get over it. Peter’s cell has an alliance with Clint’s, but if push came to shove, Clint isn’t sure either of them would defend the other. Their truce hinges on Steve keeping control as the pod’s unofficial boss and right now he’s never looked more frail.

“Your luck’s always shit, Barton,” Eddie rumbles as he moves to his usual position behind Steve, arms crossed over his barrel chest and giving Peter a hard look. “C’mon, Cap. Got the new Globe in the mail for you to read before Banner starts pesterin’ me for it.”

Steve seems to give himself a mental shake, blinking owlishly up at Eddie and then Clint. He licks his lips, jerking his head at Peter to leave the table and for Clint and Eddie to sit back down.

Clint slumps into the seat Peter vacates, keeping his body language casual as he faces his cellmates. “Man, if you’re getting sick off those eggs from breakfast, warn us before lights out, will you?”

“Sit, Eddie,” Steve says hoarsely and Clint briefly wonders if they’re gonna spend the night covering up another one of Steve’s coughing fits.

Scowling around at the rest of the pod, Eddie sits, setting massive forearms on the table and clasping his hands, looking every inch the enforcer.

“Cap?” Clint asks, leaning forward slightly as he notices Steve slip trembling hands into his lap.

“One of the newbies,” Steve says, voice barely above a whisper, and Clint has to fiddle with his aids to pick up the words clearly. “I know him.”

“Like in the Biblical sense?”

Eddie shoots him a withering look, as if Clint doesn’t _know_ what the man gets up to in the showers with his creepy alien when he thinks the rest of the cell is asleep.

“From before. He died in 1944, I saw him fall off the train,” Steve says, eyes tracking one of the newbies as he shuffles up the stairs to the upper level.

Clint looks, taking in the greasy, long brown hair and the silver metal of a bionic arm clutching the thin mattress and bag of possessions. The dude definitely doesn’t look over a hundred years old, but, then again, neither does Steve. The arm though – _that_ brings chills up Clint’s spine as he sees the red star emblazoned on the shoulder.

He’s only heard stories about that arm, whispered from other former SHIELD agents and half formed horror stories from Nat. Only one person in the world frightens Natasha Romanoff: the assassin with the metal arm and the red star.

The Winter Soldier.

Eddie’s watching too, muttering under his breath to his alien partner as his eyes flash white. Together, Venom is arguably one of the most powerful inmates in the pod, but Clint knows they won’t risk revealing the symbiote isn’t as drugged as the COs and the rest of the pod are led to believe.

“Cap, that’s… that’s not your buddy,” Clint says slowly. “I have an idea of who that is and man, _trust me_ : we don’t want anything to do with him. Hell, I don’t even know why they’ve got him in here and not in seg.”

“Half the guys here should probably be in seg,” Eddie points out and okay, yeah, he’s not wrong. If the COs had any idea that Eddie’s symbiote was conscious they’d haul his ass off to seg and keep him doped up to his eyeballs twenty-four seven.

“It’s him,” Steve replies, full of conviction. “It’s Bucky, I’d know him anywhere, Clint.” His eyes are shining, blinking back unshed tears, narrow shoulders drawn forward and together as he leans forward on the table. “It’d be the same thing as if Natasha walked in here: no matter what she looked like, you’d know her.”

Clint sighs and runs his hands through his mohawk, rubbing at the back of his neck. He glances back up to the upper level, watching as Tony, ever the nosy bastard, steps out of his cell and in front of the Winter Soldier. The two aren’t far off in height, with the Soldier bulkier than Tony’s lean build, but Tony always has this _presence_ that makes him feel larger than life.

“What the fuck is Stark doing?” Eddie growls, narrowing his eyes and sitting up a bit straighter. “Better be telling him to get back downstairs; the only open bunk up there is in our cell.”

Clint’s gotten used to certain creature comforts during his time in the Vault, especially since aligning himself with Steve and establishing himself as the right hand man of the resident pod boss. One of those comforts is Steve controls who gets bunks on the upper level and generally everyone gets along fairly well with few exceptions. Newbies get bunks along the lower level wall and those not in Steve’s alliance fill in the cells. As a result, Clint considers most of the upper level his friends and it’s a safe refuge for when he needs it.

What he really doesn’t need is to try to sleep with the Winter Soldier in the bunk below his.

Steve’s on his feet faster than Clint expects, his oversized sandals flopping as he moves with surprising grace toward the stairwell. He attracts the attention of most of the pod, with guys poking their heads out of the cells and looking up from their card games or books. It’s not a good situation; Steve’s kept control of the pod through quiet leadership and confidence – and the judicious use of sending Eddie to “have discussions” with any who make trouble. Even though he’s the smallest guy in the pod, everyone has a healthy respect for the Captain, who isn’t known to back down from any challenger.

This abrupt franticness, especially with new blood coming in, will no doubt be taken as a weakness.

Clint and Eddie exchange glances before wordlessly rising to their feet. It hasn’t been _that_ long since the last pod brawl, but Clint’s been locked up long enough that he knows to prepare for the worst.

Oh well. Eddie’s nose has healed up pretty quickly from headbutting Rumlow last time and Clint doesn’t think the Hydra assholes are too keen on taking another beat-down so soon.

Taking the stairs at an easy pace, Clint leaves Eddie to lean menacingly against the railing on the lower level and catches up to Steve, who’s staring at the Winter Soldier like he’s the goddamn Easter Bunny.

“Ah, good, Barton, there you are. Was just telling Terminator here that we’re full up but there’s a few open places downstairs with the little people,” Tony quips, keeping his eyes on the Winter Soldier’s, his gaze hard as iron even though the rest of his body language is deceptively loose.

“Yeah, upper level’s VIP only, buddy,” Clint says, because he’s clearly losing his goddamned mind. Winter Soldier or not, pod rules have to be enforced and no one gets special treatment based on who they are or how many people they’ve murdered.

And Clint really, _really_ doesn’t want to think about just how many people the Soldier has killed.

“He can bunk with us.”

…Or Steve’s going to just throw away the rules. He technically can, is the only one of them who can, but Clint’s worried how it’s going to look to the rest of the pod, especially since he’s going against two of his own.

The Soldier turns to Steve, his admittedly pretty blue-grey eyes widening in surprise and something else. This close, he doesn’t look that intimidating if you take away the metal arm. He just looks like any other newbie: lost and a little overwhelmed.

“Cap – “ Clint begins, but Steve cuts him off.

“Follow me. You can take the bunk below Barton’s.”

Clint snaps his mouth shut and Tony raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over the arc reactor glowing through his white tank top. They look at each other and Tony signs a fast _not here_ before running his hand over his goatee and following Steve stiffly into the cell.

The Soldier blinks and seems as stunned as the rest of them. He tightens his grip on his mattress and pads into the cell with Steve and Tony, leaving Clint to wonder why the fuck everyone has gone crazy and sign for Bruce to remain where he is and for Eddie to come up to the cell.

Everyone is silent until Eddie’s massive bulk blocks the doorway to the cell. Clint hops up onto his bunk, digging around under the mattress for a bag of M&Ms and tearing it open.

Steve sits carefully down on Eddie’s bunk, looking at Tony as the man leans casually between the bunks and the curtain dividing the sleeping quarters and bathroom of the cell.

“Put your stuff on the empty bunk there,” Steve says quietly, and the Soldier complies, his movements cautious. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Steve,” the Soldier replies, his voice sounding as if he’s been gargling glass. He dumps his stuff on the steel frame of the bunk and gives Clint a wary look as he ducks under his swinging legs to start making up his bed. “I knew you.”

Steve nods, face positively _beaming_. He leans forward, eyes bright. “That’s right, that’s good. Do you know who _you_ are?”

Because that’s the million dollar question isn’t it? If this guy is in fact someone from Steve’s past, how’d he become the most feared assassin on the planet? Clint has a few vague ideas and all of them turn his stomach for one reason or another.

He pops a few M&Ms in his mouth and chews noisily before taking one and pegging Eddie in the beard with it. A small black tendril lashes out, almost too quick for the naked eye, and then is gone in an instant along with the candy. Good. The symbiote’s paying attention to what’s going on in the cell at least.

The Soldier’s brow furrows as he takes his blanket and unfolds it carefully, kicking the rest of his supplies under his bunk. What should be an easy question clearly _isn’t_ and Clint’s back on edge again.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the Soldier says finally, as if he’s reciting lines from a book. “Born March 10th 1917\. Sergeant in the United States Army, member of the Howling Commandos, and best friend to Steve Rogers, best known as Captain America.”

The only sound for several long moments is Clint’s chewing. The Soldier shifts from foot to foot, metal arm moving stiffly, almost in slow motion, and Clint feels like an idiot when he notices the electro-magnetic band locked around the silver wrist. Of fucking course the Vault would disable that arm.

“So, what’re you in for?” Clint asks, if for nothing else than to break the painful silence and wipe the kicked puppy look off Steve’s face.

The Soldier – Barnes – looks up at Clint, his gaze steady. “Murder,” he deadpans.

In the corner, Tony gives an amused snort and it’s enough to shake Steve out of his reverie.

“Bucky, what happened to you? What’d they do to you? I saw you fall from the train and I…” Steve’s voice trails off and he looks at the cement floor, jaw setting before looking back up. “I couldn’t save you. Fuckin’ serum gave me all these tactical skills but it couldn’t make me strong enough to save my best friend.”

Barnes looks away, arm sluggishly coming to rest at his side. “I’m not… I’m not the same, Stevie,” he says, the nickname seeming to surprise him even as he says it. “My brain’s like swiss cheese. I remember every mission, every single person I… But that’s it. I get flashes here and there, like somethin’ that feels familiar. Memories that pop up with no context. It’s like watchin’ a movie except I know I lived it; I just don’t remember it.”

“That’s something that probably shouldn’t leave this cell,” Clint says, trying not to sound unsympathetic because boy is he a pro when it comes to brainwashing. “The guys here sense any kind of weakness and they’re on you, man. Steve’s protection can only go so far.”

Snorting softly, Barnes gives Steve a rueful glance, his hand coming up to push his hair out of his eyes. “If he’s the Stevie that’s in my head, then we’ll be lucky if we go a day without him pickin’ a fight he can’t win,” he huffs, mouth twisting in the ghost of a smile.

“Why do you think Steve adopted the biggest guy in the pod?” Tony says with a smirk. His arms are still crossed and he raises an eyebrow at Clint when Barnes isn’t looking. Clint can’t blame him for not being totally at ease, but if Tony’s trying, then Clint can too.

“Just pointing out I’ve been here a lot longer than you fuckers,” Eddie snarks from the doorway. “If anything, I adopted you.”

“Brock, if you want to have someone call you ‘Daddy,’ you’ve gotta go downstairs to Kasady’s cell, that’s more up his alley,” Tony replies and everyone but Barnes groans in unison.

Steve shakes his head, smiling slightly. “Speakin’ of Kasady: Clint, Tony, will you two get some tabs on the other two new guys and see who ended up in his cell? I know you’re probably overwhelmed, Buck, but think of it like debrief. Eddie, make sure we don’t have any visitors, will ya?”

“We’re way ahead of you, Cap,” Eddie replies as Clint hops off his bunk.

Tony gives Barnes a long look before nodding, shockingly without trying to get the last word. He ducks under Eddie’s massive bicep and saunters his way downstairs. If anyone can afford information in the Vault, it’s Tony Stark.

Clint doesn’t want to leave, both out of concern at leaving Steve alone with the… okay, _former_ Winter Soldier and out of his own curiosity, but Steve and Barnes have over seventy years of catching up to do. He remembers how important Nat was to his own recovery after his brainwashing at Loki’s hands and he figures Barnes is well overdue for a friend, whether Clint trusts him or not.

He slips past Eddie, exchanging a quick fist bump with him as he exits the cell. Worst case scenario, he barters some gossip out of Eddie later and adds to his ever-growing tab of M&M bags that he owes the man.

He’ll pay him back. Eventually.

Bruce is still where they left him, leaning against the railing with his glasses down low on his nose as he reads the month-old newspaper. He doesn’t bother to look up as Clint slides down the railing to the lower level, presumably having already gotten the all clear from Tony.

Clint makes his rounds through the lower level of the pod, stopping here and there to check in with fellow inmates or exchange thinly veiled threats with others. He pointedly ignores Rumlow and his gang, who have slithered out of their cells and taken over the small group of chairs by the television. Their eyes burn into Clint’s back as he walks past, none of them bothering to keep up the pretence of watching HGTV.

Not that Clint can really picture a bunch of Nazis debating the merits of _Property Brothers_ versus _Fixer Upper_ , but really, they’re not even hiding their intentions at this point.

Christ. He’s gonna end up punching a Nazi before dinnertime, he can just _feel_ it.

He sprawls out on one of the small round chairs attached to the table and leans his elbows back against the smooth metal surface. There’s something about new guys coming in that makes everyone feel the need to wave their dicks around – figuratively speaking, though sometimes with Kasady it’s literal – and Clint’s no different. As far as he knows, he’s the only human who isn’t enhanced in some way in the pod. The population majority are mutants, of course, but Clint’s pod is pretty even between them and enhanced humans and _most_ of the time they get along without any sort of prejudices.

The government doesn’t seem to care whether the people they stuff into the Vault are regular humans or mutants, after all.

There are a small scattering of aliens in the pod as well. They’re all in their own cell and mostly stick together with the exception of the three Klyntar, who are kept drugged and sedated twenty-four seven as a rule. No one, not even the other inmates, are too keen on having nearly unkillable parasites with a taste for any kind of flesh being loose in their hosts. The only ones who know Eddie’s symbiote life partner – or whatever the fuck they call each other, they’re touchy about that – isn’t drugged are Clint, Tony, and Steve. V’s not a bad sort for a ball of alien goo though, not that Clint’ll ever admit it.

As far as Clint knows though? He’s the only normal human. One ex-carnie locked up in superhuman supermax, which doesn’t really bode well for his projected life expectancy. The most popular rumour is he’s a mutant – close second is he has x-ray vision, which would be _awesome_ – and he’s not really inclined to confirm or deny any theories. The more powerful the others thought he was, the less likely he’d become an easy target.

The first week he was locked up, he’d been bunked along the lower level walls and had his hearing aids stolen while he slept. He’d met Eddie that way, who’d “persuaded” the thief to give them up and Clint had fanboyed a bit over Captain Fucking America taking his side. He’d proven his worth in the brawl that broke out the following week as Rumlow and his Hydra cronies decided to try to take on CO Wilson and Clint had managed to knock the bastard unconscious from his perch on the upper level railing with a well-aimed hardcover Bible.

Clint smiles at the memory and winks at Rumlow, whose face turns as purple as Clint’s hearing aids.

“You know they’re probably gonna do a shakedown, right?” Peter asks as he wanders back over to Clint’s table. “They know bringing in new guys means there’s gonna be a fight. My bet is after dinner.”

Shrugging, Clint continues to watch Rumlow’s goonies and pretends to be interested in _Fixer Upper_. One day Bruce is gonna give up the remote and they’ll finally be able to watch Food Network or football or something but it’s been HG-fucking-TV for the past three months.

“They can do a shakedown,” Clint replies, glancing toward the nearest camera. “Ain’t gonna find anything unless Kasady’s been selling his meds again.” Rocket’s probably got a dozen weapons built and stashed somewhere that only tiny raccoon paws can get to, but the aliens are never Clint’s problem, really.

“He’s been pretty mild lately which, don’t get me wrong, is still creepy, but at least he’s not walking around naked again.”

Clint shudders at the memory. He’d ended up selling his dinner tray for a deck of cards and a couple cinnamon buns that night because the sight had turned his stomach so badly. It’s in _everyone’s_ best interest that Cletus Kasady stays medicated.

“So you ended up with a new cellie, huh?” Peter asks casually, toying with the string on his sweatpants. “What’s he in for?”

“Usual shit,” Clint says, deliberately vague. “Seems okay. Quiet. Probably gonna hate it when Brock and I start singing.”

Peter grimaces. “Yeah, we all enjoy that, especially your neighbours,” he gripes. “Tony usually joins in and wakes up the rest of us.”

“Hey, we sound _awesome_ , okay? And don’t complain, you’re lucky to be in the Nerd Cell. Most guys here would give the rest of their commissary for your bunk.”

Rumlow leans in, pressing one hand into the chest of one of his cronies before rising to his feet. Clint watches him with hooded eyes and he can feel Peter tense slightly next to him. The guy’s a good indicator of the general mood of the pod - he gets downright _twitchy_ before a fight breaks out - and Clint doesn’t miss the way his eyes track Rumlow’s second in command around the outer edge of the pod.

Yep. Nazis are gonna get punched, it’s just the way of life in the Vault.

Peter stands, fingers rubbing together at his sides and he bounces lightly on the soles of his feet. The guy’s ready to spring up to the upper level at any second, Clint’s seen it enough times before.

The energy in the room suddenly feels electric, with inmates buzzing around the dayroom and appearing in cell doorways. Scales tries to move into one of the two dayroom bathrooms and is blocked, hilariously, by tiny ass Carlton Drake, whose cell with Rumlow is located right next door. The Big Bads, Tony calls their cell, share with Kasady and the new guy named Poindexter currently, at least until they have a spat and scatter like rats among the lower level.

Shifting toward Drake, Peter turns to block Clint’s blind spot and looks back and forth between the egotistical assbag and Rumlow’s second.

“Got a proposal for you, Barton,” Rumlow says, his tone almost conversational – which is hilarious, anyone having a rational conversation with a Nazi – as he saunters over to where Clint’s still sprawled at the table. “You’re about to have a real problem on your hands.”

“Already got a problem, unless you’re thinkin’ of letting the Hulk bat you around during rec,” Clint drawls, smiling brightly up at Rumlow.

Rumlow’s expression turns frosty, a vein in his forehead standing out for a brief second before he seems to swallow down his rage. “A new problem. I don’t expect us to see eye to eye, but we’re about to have a common enemy.”

“You finally turning on Kasady? He too crazy for your genocide preferences?”

“Your new cellmate, Barton,” Rumlow growls, squaring off in front of Clint as if shit like that’s even remotely intimidating anymore. “He needs to be taken out.”

Clint bats his eyes up at Rumlow, letting his legs fall open wider in a lewd gesture. “Aw, you runnin’ a Nazi dating service? Tryin’ to set me up? I mean dating conditions aren’t the _best_ here but I can take a guy out in more ways than one.” He waggles his eyebrows and grins, biting his lower lip.

Apparently the thought of guys taking out other guys is more offensive than whatever garbage Hydra scheme Rumlow’s thinking of because his fist moves faster than Clint can react, catching him solidly in the jaw and making his head ring with the whiplash.

Peter’s launching himself up onto the upper level before Clint finishes spitting the blood out of his mouth. Rumlow may have super strength and speed going for him, but he’s so _boringly_ predictable that even half-dazed, Clint knows the next punch will be low and left and he dodges easily. He twists out of the way, rolling off the chair from under Rumlow, and bouncing lightly to onto the balls of his feet. He could end up in seg for fighting back, but he’s made sure to sit right in front of the cameras so there’s no question about self-defense.

Rumlow swings again, a sharp jab that Clint blocks with a grunt of effort. He catches a glimpse of fiery red hair moving behind him to his right, only to be blocked by a massive form who announces his presence with a booming _thud_ as he lands from the second level. Clint grins, wide and bloody, as he swings his leg out to trip Rumlow: good ol’ reliable Eddie Brock has his back.

With Kasady restrained and Rumlow swearing as he gets to his feet, Clint puts some distance between them and hops up onto one of the far tables. Steve appears at the second level railing, face set into a deep frown, and for a second Clint wonders if he’s gonna pull that Frisbee move with the lunch trays again.

“Really, you gotta bring all your buddies to take me down?” Clint sighs as he watches Rumlow’s second and another of his goons move in to flank him on either side. “You good keepin’ Red down, Eddie?”

“No trouble at all,” Eddie replies with a grunt, hauling Kasady’s spindly arms behind his back and leaning more weight into him, keeping him pinned in place.

Kicking off his sandal, Clint flips it up and catches it, throwing it in the same smooth motion and catching one of the Hydra goons square in the face. “How’s the show up there, Cap?”

“Better than HGTV,” Steve’s laugh drifts down.

“Awesome, don’t let Bruce hear you say that.” Clint launches the second sandal as hard as he can as he turns his attention back to Rumlow. He’s out of projectiles, which sucks, but at least he’s still got the table for some height advantage. He meets Rumlow’s charge with a feint, adjusting his balance mid-kick to lash out with the other one and catching the man on the cheek with his bare foot.

Something catches Clint in the temple, sending his hearing aid skittering to the floor. It throws his balance off, and, arms windmilling wildly, he falls off the table and crashes into the cool cement.

The new guy, Poindexter, the one with the fucking bullseye carved into his forehead – really, way to steal Clint’s schtick – stands above him with a smirk. He winds his fist into the front of Clint’s shirt, grinning wildly as he pulls his arm back.

There’s a flash of chrome and Barnes charges into Poindexter like a bull, head down, his metal arm still stiff at his side, but Barnes uses it like a battering ram, aiming his shoulder to catch Poindexter squarely in the gut. He’s on Poindexter in a flash as they both crash heavily to the floor next to Clint, straddling the guy’s chest with strong thighs and pressing his metal arm into Poindexter’s throat.

Clint scrambles to his feet just as the guards burst in. CO Wilson’s at the head which is good news for Clint and the rest of Steve’s alliance – Wilson’s always had a soft spot for the Cap and has no love for Rumlow and his goons. In another life, Clint could even see them being friends.

He flattens himself back on the ground on his stomach and crosses his hands behind his back as the COs bark their orders. Wilson’s got Rumlow slammed against the wall in cuffs, yelling something in his ear that Clint can’t make out, but the picture is one he’ll treasure for at least a week.

“I said on your stomach, inmate!”

Next to Clint, Poindexter’s being manhandled to his feet by a pair of COs – Castle and Madani, thank God, more of Wilson’s squad – and Madani’s yelling orders at Barnes, who looks like a cornered animal about to snap. His eyes are wide and feral, his breathing coming faster the more Madani yells at him.

“Hey, Buck,” Clint calls, snapping his fingers and praying Castle doesn’t decide to break them. “Eyes on me, yeah? Do what she says, it’s okay. No one’s gonna take you anywhere. Lay down next to me, put your arm behind your back.”

“Inmate,” Madani warns, leaving Poindexter in Castle’s capable hands and putting her hand on her gun.

“Madani, please,” Clint says, flicking his gaze from Barnes to her pleadingly.

Barnes shifts, lowering himself to the ground slowly. He puts his right arm behind his back, his left still stiff at his side, his fist clenched.

“That’s it, buddy, just follow my lead, okay? Do what I do. Madani and Castle aren’t dicks like some of these guys.” Sort of. Castle can be a real mean bastard when he feels like it, but as he’s currently dating Clint’s lawyer, he doesn’t think he has too much to worry about from the infamous Punisher.

Barnes’ eyes are less wild now, clearer, but still filled with a fear that Clint can’t name, probably couldn’t understand even if he tried. He meets and holds Clint’s gaze like Clint’s the last thread holding him together; it’s both heady and a little alarming, that level of intensity.

Madani mutters something to Castle and takes Poindexter’s other arm, their boots stomping out of Clint’s peripheral vision as they march him toward the door.

“You’re a smart sonofabitch, Barton,” Wilson’s voice laughs into Clint’s remaining aid. “You know if you pull something like that again, I’m gonna have no choice but to take you down to seg, right?”

“Self-defense,” Clint replies, still holding Barnes’ gaze. “You find my missing aid, CO?”

“That’s on you, my friend. They’re gonna review the cameras, but you and yours should be okay. Tell Pretty Boy here to keep his nose out of trouble, you hear me?”

Barnes stiffens at the nickname and Clint winks at him. A baffled look spreads across his face and oh _God_ , Clint can’t find him cute. He can’t. His bunk’s right above Clint’s and he’s a newbie and he’s _the motherfucking Winter Soldier._

Wilson calls for everyone to get back to their cells until dinner and Clint groans as he hauls himself up off the hard floor. He can probably kiss those sandals goodbye, someone – likely Rocket, that fuckin’ thief – probably snatched them up after he threw them, but he’s gotta find his missing hearing aid. Medical will probably give him another one, but that takes weeks and he sure as shit ain’t gonna survive half-deaf now that he’s painted a fresh target on his back. Sighing, he holds out a hand to help Barnes up and nods at Eddie as the man moves over to his deaf side.

Barnes hesitates for a second, glancing warily at Eddie, and takes Clint’s hand. He’s heavier than Clint expects – that fucking hunk of titanium or whatever the fuck attached to his shoulder, probably – and Clint overbalances a little, stumbling into Barnes’ chest.

God, he really fucking is pretty. This close, Clint can see the shades of blue in his eyes, smell his scent – that godawful standard issue soap covers most of it, but it’s there – and feel the heat of his body. He knows the Soldier was given a version of the one Steve had, one that enhanced his physical characteristics instead of his mental ones, but not even Cap runs this hot.

Clint grins nervously. If he lowers his head just a little bit, their noses would be touching and if he lowers it just a _little_ bit –

Eddie clears his throat noisily and Clint and Barnes spring apart like they’ve been electrocuted.

Asshole.

“Cap’s waiting,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrow because he’s not a fucking moron and knows what Clint’s like. “Hurry up.”

Clint turns to follow Eddie, ducking his head and hoping no one else will notice how red his cheeks are. Prison life must be getting to him finally, if he’s getting that hot over someone like Barnes.

Warm fingers wrap around his bicep and Clint resists the urge to turn around swinging.

“Sorry,” Barnes says quickly, letting him go and holding up his hand. “Just wanted to give you this.” He nods at his left hand, the fingers slowly unclenching from the fist they’d been folded into.

Clint’s missing hearing aid tumbles out of Barnes’ hand and Clint nearly drops it in surprise. He settles it back into his ear and grins at Barnes, clapping him on the back. “Thanks, man, you don’t know how much you just saved my ass,” he says, letting his fingers linger a little at Barnes’ back before pulling away.

Barnes’ expression is carefully schooled back into neutral and he shrugs his right shoulder. “Steve said it’s important to start showin’ I can be trustworthy. I don’t really remember much, but I know if he trusts you, I should too.” He turns and follows Eddie up the stairs to their cell, leaving Clint to blink in his wake and Wilson to yell at him to hurry the fuck up or he’d be handing out shots.

Right. He can do this. He’s locked up with some of the most dangerous people in the world and hasn’t managed to get killed or have his true identity revealed yet. Having a crush on his formerly brainwashed assassin cellie? No problem.


End file.
